The Legend of Tempest
by Lady of the Paradox
Summary: The colt's POV from The Man From Snowy River. A little change of certain discourses from within the poem and movies. Mostly the poem which I got from A.B. Paterson's Collected Works, hence why it's in the Misc. Books section. I don't own the poem.


Again I am publishing a fanfic written for my English class. This was one of those stories that just writes itself. I love when that happens!

It was written for the resistant readings syllabus for year 11 students in Queensland, so if what I've written doesn't make sense to you, I can post my abstract on the work.

The Legend of Tempest is based on 'The Man from Snowy River' by A. Banjo Paterson. The fic also sort of makes reference to the Man from Snowy River movies, in that it mentions Harrison being posed as a villain. In the poem Harrison is fair, neither good or bad, in the movie he's the bad guy. For those who know the story, Tempest is actually 'the colt that got away'.

Enjoy the wonders from a horsey POV.

Love

LotP.

PS, It occurred to me that only Australians would really understand all of the subtext involved with changing this poem, it's one of our icons, so I have included the poem as well, so that some of what I've written makes more sense.

**The Man From Snowy River**

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around

That the colt from old Regret had got away,

And had joined the wild bush horses – he was worth a thousand pounds

So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.

All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far

Had mustered to the homestead overnight,

For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,

And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,

The old man with his hair as white as snow;

But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up—

He would go wherever horse and man could go.

And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,

No better horseman ever held the reins;

For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand,

He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,

He was something like a racehorse undersized,

With a touch of Timor pony – three parts thoroughbred at least—

And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.

He was hard and tough and wiry – just the sort that won't say die—

There was courage in his quick impatient tread;

And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,

And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,

And the old man said, "That horse will never do

For a long and tiring gallop – lad, you'd better stop away,

Those hills are far too rough for such as you."

So he waited sad and wistful – only Clancy stood his fiend—

"I think we ought to let him come," he said;

"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,

For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,

Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,

Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,

The man that holds his own is good enough.

And the Snowy River riders make their home,

Where the river runs those giant hills between;

I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,

But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."

So he went – they found the horses by the big mimosa clump—

They raced away towards the mountain's brow,

And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,

No use to try for fancy riding now.

And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.

Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,

For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,

If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

So Clancy rode to wheel them—he was racing on the wing

Where the best and boldest riders take their place,

And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring

With the stockwhip as he met them face to face.

Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,

But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,

And the charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,

And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black

Resounded to the thunder of their tread,

And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back

From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.

And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,

Where the mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;

And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,

_No_ man can hold them down the other side.'

When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,

It well might make the boldest hold their breath,

The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full

Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.

But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,

And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,

And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,

While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,

He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,

And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat—

It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.

Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,

Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;

And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,

At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,

And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,

Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,

As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.

Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met

In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals

On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,

With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.

He followed like a bloodhound on their track,

Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,

And alone and unassisted brought them back.

But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,

He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;

But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,

For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise

Their torn and rugged battlements on high,

Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze

At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,

And where around the Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway

To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,

The man from Snowy River is a household word today,

And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

**The Legend of Tempest**

I was racing the other colts around the field where the elders and the fillies were grazing when it started. When those good-for-nothings started 'the chase'. They call themselves heroes, but we know the truth, and maybe one day everyone else will learn it as well.

Everyone has heard the legend of the man from Snowy River, right? That fool _Banjo Paterson_ immortalized the cad. Made him a household name. He'd roll in his grave if he knew the truth. His hero? A man with no thought to anything but his own glory. It's all good and well for me to tell you all of this, but you need to hear the story to understand. I may be old now, but the story is still clear in my mind.

Harrison was an alright kind of an owner. A hard man, but a fair one too. He won his fortune gambling and he used part of it to buy me. _Me._ _For a thousand pounds!_ They treated me as though I was a commodity. I could understand them thinking me a prize, but a _commodity_? They had no clue.

Harrison had a daughter though, Jessica. A pretty thing by their standards. Smart, brave and good by our standards. It was she who saw that I had the true spirit of a horse. She recognized it and named me for it. Tempest. It was Jessica who set me free.

It was late at night and Jessica had snuck out of the house. She brought no whip or bridle or saddle. She knew the value of words meant more than that of the whip. Had it been anyone else I'd have kicked up a ruckus, but I was a kitten for her. I value my friends. She took me from my stall and led me over the grass to the gate. As we walked she spoke to me.

"You've too strong and wild a spirit to let them break you with their weapons and tempers. You belong with the wild mountain herds. None around here are good enough to ride those mountains. Stay there, Tempest. Not even Clancy can get you there."

She stroked my face and patted my side, then she opened the gate and let me loose. In all my life I never imagined that freedom could feel so …. Free! There's no way to describe it. I galloped, then wheeled. Jessica. Liquid fell from her eyes. She was sad to see me go. That a human could have completely unselfish feelings towards one my kind was beyond me. I walked back and laid my face alongside hers and blew lightly at her neck by way of farewell. Then I galloped again. This time for the mountain horses.

It wasn't hard for me to find the mountain herd. In fact I didn't have to even walk far. One of them had ventured near to the farm to see if there was any food laying out. He heard what happened and saw my release. He waited to see if I was followed, then met me and took me to the mountain herd. He was my first friend, his name was Fury.

The mountain herd accepted me with very little questions. They could tell by looking that I'd never been broken. I was groomed in a way that could only mean that I had been bought by a human, but I had no marks on me where the girth straps and saddle would have ruined my coat. No marks on my mouth from the bit. I was unbroken, spirit intact, and completely un-brainwashed. I was my own horse, finally.

The days were spent with grazing and running. Our favourite spot was by a big clump of mimosa. I spent just over a week living like this. The elders and the fillies tended to be more peaceful, but were just as high strung and wild as the colts. The colts I learnt were very competitive – a trait I could well respect. There wasn't a moment when we weren't competing. We weren't like the humans though – we didn't brawl over it: whoever won was the winner and that wouldn't change with a hoof-fight.

One day near the mimosa we were racing when one of the elders raised their head and gave a cry. The men had found us! At the head was Harrison and next to him rode Clancy. Clancy of the Overflow. If we didn't run we were history and I said so too. As we ran the others asked me if I knew what was happening.

"The one at the head, the old one, he bought me for a thousand of their pound things. His daughter is sympathetic to our kind and let me loose. The one next to him is Clancy of the Overflow. The best horse rider that ever lived. He's never been thrown off, though God knows I tried when he sat on me. The rest are all good riders, but they must be desperate, look at the one at the back."

"His horse is a good mountain type by the looks of it, the kind who should join our herd," the oldest of us noted.

"Yea, but look at the rider. When that horse gets to the mountains, he'll be thrown. There's no way he could stay on a horse like that when it's in it's own territory," Fury pointed out. He was an optimist, despite his name, though at the time none of us realised that it was nothing but optimism.

We were a mountain herd so we ran to our mountain. Our home, our friend, our natural ally. We raced over the plain faster than we'd ever run before. We figured we'd lose them when we got to the trees, but Clancy raced up alongside us on Harrison's order and started to herd us like cattle in a muster. We almost gave in too, but the mountain beckoned to us like a beacon. We braved his stockwhip and ran straight in our mountain's direction. We ran through the gorges and the stockmen followed. They complained and yelled and whipped, but the gorge voices just yelled back at them. Finally the ascent started. We ran upwards and upwards and the men started getting desperate behind us. They knew that they couldn't follow us down the other side. We could hear Harrison start to give up and mutter:

"We may bid the mob good day, _no_ man can hold them down the other side!"

Finally, _finally_, we were at the summit and we started down, our feet finding safe places that no tame horse ever could. Even Clancy stopped at the mere sight of the descent. We had won! So we thought. The little mountain pony. He was not quite tame,_ that_ we could see, but the little man on top of him did something completely unexpected: _he let the pony have his head!_ He spurred the horse on and came down as easy as you please! However, he was but one and we were a hundred.

The little man kept up with us all the way. As we ran we began to see the Timor pony; he wasn't tame, but neither was he sane! He wasn't a brave one at all! When the humans broke his spirit they broke his mind as well! He spoke to himself as his master lashed at him.

"Gotta keep running, the master likes it. But the master is mean, mean to Brucie-boy. But that's not me, I'm Lightning of the Timor mountain ponies. But I'm Brucie-boy the stockhorse."

We tried to put distance between ourselves and the mindless thing, but he was just as fast as we were. Our only hope was to beat him through stamina. Soon we couldn't see the men on the mountaintop anymore. We kept running though. But, there, in front of us was a long line of men. They appeared to know the little man.

Fury snorted: "The Snowy River riders!"

They called out to each other and before we knew it the men all lashed out with their whips and drove us back the way we'd come. We had little choice. The little man had been but one whip; this was a score and a half. They all chased us. Mustering our great herd toward the others, just before we came back in view, the little man's friends disappeared. We couldn't understand it. But we just kept going. Then we were up the mountain and the cracks were droving us towards Old Regret again. Before we knew it we were locked up.

Later we found that the little man from Snowy River had claimed to have been so good a rider that he had driven 'the infamous mountain herd' back alone and without assistance. That poor mad horse of his had died of exertion, from how hard he'd been pushed, for one little to man to make a name for himself from a lie. It was as good as murder. In return for his 'great skill and services' Harrison promised him anything he wanted. He demanded Jessica. She tried to run, but was caught, by the little man, himself. He'd taken to standing outside her window at night. He was disgusting, a liar and a murderer. Jessica hated him, she never loved him, but she was stuck. The same as we were.

One night, the little man came to my stall and whispered to me.

"I must thank you so much for running away. If you hadn't escaped I'd never have been able to make a name for myself and the Snowy River boys. I owe it all to a dumb animal. I own you, I own the girl and I own the old man. Thanks to you I have it all!"

I felt sick to my soul. I could only imagine how Jessica felt; she let me go in the first place.

Jessica suffered ten years of marriage before he finally drank himself to death. She let us all go the day she found out that he'd never leave his room again. Now we all owe our freedom to her. The little man has been immortalized by Banjo Paterson and his story is a movie. They make out he was good and brave and won the love of Jessica, and Harrison is made out to be evil and mean. How would they all cope to learn that the only truly good person was Jessica? Of all the characters immortalized in their story Jessica is the only hero. A woman who suffered for ten years for the mountain herd. I am old now and I watch the colts playing as we did once. Now I am the elder, and even with all the wisdom I have gathered over the years, I can only hope that they never experience what my generation did.


End file.
